Dancing Rose
by ladyrostova
Summary: After the demolition of the Paris Opera House most of the company fled. However, some could not afford to. Such were Meg and her mother. They believed themselves alone in the opera house, but not entirely... Movie/musical. Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

It's been two weeks since Christine left the broken opera house after the catastrophe. She took Raoul, her lover, with her when she left, leaving my mother and I to our lonesome. We've had the whole place to ourselves, mother and I. And though life alone in a gorgeous opera house may seem lovely, I have never once seen my mother so horribly sad before in my entire life. The color was drained from her cheeks, her beautiful auburn hair was left down in a tangled mess, and her eyes--oh, her eyes!--were brimming with sadness. What had come over my mother, I thought. What in God's name had deterred my mother from her usual state of unconditional happiness?

But ah, I had changed as well. I noticed as I was gazing at myself in the mirror but a day ago that I seemed thinner than usual. Surely, this was of no importance, I thought. But I was wrong! I seemed to grow thinner and thinner each time I looked in the mirror. I grew horrified, and told my mother. But all she did was cry... I felt awful for making her so upset; yet I had no one else to turn to. I was frightened, I must admit. What if I had been consumed by malnutrition? No, I shooed those thoughts away and kept pushing forwards with all my might. There was something wrong with me... But I do not know what. Thank God that my weight has been returning to me now. I'm not sure what did me in the past few days, but perhaps it was just the simple lack of food to begin with.

The days drag by wearily, and I find myself dreading the morning and dreading the night and dreading the day in between. I no longer anticipate the breaking of my fast, and I no longer anticipate the joys of supper among friends. For what is there to enjoy when there aren't any friends to eat with, or to gossip with? Not to mention, my dancing has become less and less frequent; though I have been trying my very hardest to practice without music. I find it seemingly difficult, but I make it alright. I miss the Opera Populaire, strangely enough. Though I live right in the opera house, I miss what it was. What it used to be. For days and days have I been anticipating the long-awaited return of the owners--but to no avail. I know now that they will never come.

Days turn into weeks, and time passes by. I was so foolish to hate having dance rehearsals all the time, and doing things over and over until I finally had enough and pulled a muscle incidentally. I was so childish--so naive and so unaware of how much I would come to miss those days. Though the catastrophe had only been two weeks previous, it seemed like years and years to my mother and I. The two of us often sat in her room and reminisced about the good times, and all the fun we had. We dreamt of someday seeing the opera house regain its wonderful reputation and be restored to its well-deserved glory... But now that I have matured in my state of mind a bit more, I understand that wishing will not always help. What's done is done, and there's no going back.

Last night, as I sat warily in Christine's old dressing room, I heard a gentle humming noise caress my ears. I closed my eyes, and after a moment I opened them again only to be greeted with my pale reflection in the mirror. (I sat on the vanity chair, just in front of the vanity mirror, obviously.) I peered around the room, wondering where the strange humming noise was coming from. Suddenly, as my eyes gazed upon the vanity desk, I noticed something that was not there before I closed my eyes! It was--and oh, how it frightened me!--a single rose, with a black ribbon tied around the thorny stem. Only something was peculiar about this ribbon, for it had my name embroidered on it in golden thread. 'Meg Giry,' it read. How could this be, I thought to myself.

My heart slammed against my chest, my whole body trembled as I rose to my feet. The humming had now advanced into singing--a strange, haunting melody that was so beautiful I nearly wept. I'd heard nothing like it, and I felt so amazed to know that so beautiful a song existed. Then, as if it were as natural as breathing or blinking, I began to dance. I still do not know what had come over me... For I had never danced that way in my life. It was a strangely alien dance, and yet it was so familiar! With my hands outstretched, my mind aflutter, my heart racing and my feet clapping against the wooden floor, I never felt so alive. My own dance, and that lovely music, had totally entranced me and I lived as I've never lived before... My arms were swishing this way and that, my feet were gracefully bending in and out as I spun around in the room. This dance was so natural to me, though I knew not one step. I surged with emotion, tears streamed down my colorless cheeks as I let the passionate dance control me. I felt so awake, so new, so fresh, so loving, so overcome with---

Suddenly, a familiar voice called my name. "Meg!" It whispered. I whirled around, the music faded as well as my lovely dance. It was silent, and as the dark room finally began to lighten with candlelight, I saw a woman holding the very candle that punctured the darkness of the dressing room. The woman I recognized to be my mother. I must admit, I felt a bit ashamed of myself. I had never danced so passionately in my life, and to have an audience! And to have my mother be that audience, no less! If I remember clearly, I believe I was blushing at this time. Faint humiliation indeed colored my cheeks, and I found myself at an utter loss for words. Thankfully, my poor mother was the first to speak. For some reason, she seemed rather displeased with me and dragged me back to our chambers. Reluctantly, I followed her. But I still longed to dance like that again... I was so in love with my movement, and with the gorgeous music--if only I could dance it again!--playing in my ear, life seemed perfect and serene.

So that is why I am here now, walking down this empty hall. Back to Christine's room. I want so badly to dance like that again... What had come over me! I hope to find out soon, for the passion that was billowing from me certainly I did not want to contain any longer.

It was in the dead of night. Though I was only clad in my corset and sheer silk robe (I was too tired to take off the corset last night), I could not stop myself from tip-toeing down the stone hall. My ballet shoes were still on from the night before--I could not and would not take them off after that night with the music and my dancing--and they made an echoing noise upon the cold, stone floor which once rang with merriment.

After a few moments had passed, I trod over to the door leading to Christine's old dressing room. Slowly, once again with my heart slamming into my ribs, I turned the brass doorknob and creaked the door open. I stepped onto the lush carpet masking the wooden floor beneath Christine's dressing room, and was greeted with a new sensation. Fear. For one thing, the mirror stood ajar! There had only been two times when I had ventured into the realm beyond the mirror, and I recognized the dim light spilling into the dark room which came from beyond the mirror. For another thing, I remembered distinctly that I closed the mirror after I came up from my last trip down into the Phantom's lair two weeks previous. So what was it doing open? Fear knotted in my breast. Has the Phantom made a visit to Christine's retired dressing room? And if he still idolized her and lusted after her... What would he do if he found that I, inferior little Meg Giry, was lurking in her room?

He certainly wouldn't be pleased--I was sure of it. Yet, what did that rose with my name on it mean? Had he given it to me? What was he planning...? So many questions, but no answers.

The door slammed behind me. I jolted several feet in the air.

Shivering violently, I whirled around as my bouncy curls flew to the side.

"Oh God," I murmured, frantically trying to unlock the door. "Please, God--No!" I whispered fiercely, panic thick in my throat. I was so scared I could barely even utter an 'Eep!'

"Mademoiselle Giry," Came a deep and sultry voice. I, yet again, whirled around and came face to face with the Opera Ghost.

His eyes were a faint color of blue-- they displayed pain, loss, suffering, and sorrow. And yet there was a hint of amusement in them... Such mysterious eyes he had! Most of his features were draped in shadow. I could just see the white of his mask and the beauty in his piercing eyes.

Stepping back slightly, I whispered, "Good God," I quickly made the sign of the cross across my breast. "A-are you the Opera Ghost?" He grinned wickedly, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

"What, Marguerite, you think me the Devil?" At first, I was stunned to learn that he knew my name. Then I thought, stupidly, that of course he knew my name. For God's sake, he was the Opera Ghost! He knew everything! He stepped closer, his hand reaching towards my neck.

"N-no... Please, don't!" I cried, belting out one of the loudest screams I'd ever managed. Suddenly, I heard a thunder of steps echoing down the stone hallway. Mother.

"Meg? Meg!" Cried my mother, also trying as frantically as I had to pry open the door. The Phantom smirked.

"Marguerite, we shall meet again." He leaned in, closer and closer and closer... And then, "Marguerite, your dancing is lovely." His hot breath caressed my ear, and I closed my eyes-- heart fluttering. Then... Just as suddenly as he'd appeared, he disappeared with a whirl of his cape and a sound of the closing mirror. Fear came over me, and I fell to the ground, my mouth agape. I heard a bang, a clatter, and then the door swung open and my mother came tumbling after, landing atop me. It was an experience I hope never to relive again. Her bony-dancer-body winded me, her joints digging into my torso.

"Ah!" I shrieked. I could almost swear I heard laughter from behind the mirror. I felt my cheeks redden of the thought of the Phantom seeing this spectacle! From on top of me, my mother winced in pain.

"Marguerite, ma petite cherie, what in God's name were you doing in here at this hour of the night, and why was the door locked?" Mother breathed through her thick accent, climbing off of me and resting beside me. I did nothing but tremble for a few moments-- my lips pursed as I thought of a proper response.

"I-I was dusting Christine's old room, mama." I lied, chewing on my bottom lip.

"At twelve o'clock midnight, Meg? And clad in a sheer robe and a corset? What on Earth has come over you, my dear?"

"Nothing," I said, fearing that the Opera Ghost might hurt me if I told mother of the strange events happening to me. "I just... I could not sleep, and I figured that if I gave myself something to do, then I might get tired again and go back to sleep." I lied again, guilt pressing hard on me.

"Really? Prove it. Where is the duster?"

I rolled my eyes at my mother, and shook my head. I stood, thinking it better to tell the truth anyways. I went to the vanity, picked up the rose, and returned to my mother's side on the floor. She inhaled deeply as her wise eyes gazed upon the golden embroidery.

"Meg..." She whispered, hugging me close to her. "Never." She closed her eyes, and buried my head in her shoulder. I found this profoundly painful, seeing as her shoulder was bony as well.

"Never!" Mother hissed, glaring at the mirror. "You may take Christine, Erik, but you may not take my daughter!" Tears ran down her cheeks, and splattered onto my neck. "Never, Erik, never."

Erik. That was his name, eh?


	2. Chapter 2

The clouds were mocking me. They could dance so freely and were so in-tune with with the wind that I envied them. How was it that little wisps of frozen air could glide with such enrapturing grace to no melody, save the bustling symphony of Paris streets, and I could not? It did not seem quite fair that I was so inept.

I felt all the passion inside me was at a boiling point as I danced yesterday. And here, sitting on this cold window-seat with the winter snowflakes blowing kisses at the panes, I still feel the sweet intoxicating voice enveloping me and the tender emotion causing tears to flow down my cheeks.

I haven't been able to sleep all night. My entire being craves for that music, that... voice in the night. I'd been afraid of encountering this Opera Ghost hitherto, but now I found myself pining for his attention. Or, his voice's, anyway. I didn't really want his audience - I merely wanted to dance once again. Just once.

"Marguerite?" It was my mother, who had just entered the room.

"Yes, mama, I'm here," I answered, my voice unwavering as I stared blankly out the window.

She regarded my posture as slouched and unladylike, and made it a point to inform me of her thoughts. I tried not to seem distracted, as it would be quite rude to ignore one's own mother; thus I remedied my position to suit her. I heard the swish of her elegant, yet plain, black dress as she approached me. With warm, comforting fingers, she pulled my chin toward her so that I faced her when she paused, gazing into my eyes. This destroyed my train of thought, but I could dwell on dancing later. Mother needed me. And as my eyes fell upon her face, I noted some new and discomforting features that had not been present on her face before. My mother had always been a thin woman, but she now seemed unhealthily so. I could almost outline her entire cheekbone and follow them down to her jaw-line. The warm smile on my face faded and grew cold. I pulled her into a tight embrace - the sheer force of which was enough to cause her to buckle over in slight pain. How frail she'd become! She needed food and to leave this Godforsaken opera house. This I knew we could not afford, and that frightened me. I knew that if she did not leave soon and get some proper nourishment... the unthinkable could happen. I tightened our hug, suddenly realizing how much the thought of losing her terrified me.

"Maman," I whispered, still holding her near me, "I fear for your health. Regardless of our situation, we must leave this place!"

"Meg," she pulled away from me and rested her hands on mine. The place where she had been during our embrace still tingled with warmth. "I will survive." She was smiling but failed to mask the tears glinting under her eyes. I could tell that she did not believe herself, but pushed that thought away from my mind lest I would frighten myself further.

"We cannot live like this," she stated, hesitantly admitting the truth of the situation.

I nodded, "You cannot live like this."

She did not even respond to that. In fact, within moments, she fled my presence. I could hear her boots clicking against the hallway as I let out a sigh of utter defeat. I knew that if she was not careful, she would not ever leave... mortally.

"Dear mother, I wish you were more prudent," I confessed, thinking on it a moment than returning to my daydreams.

Then, I had an idea. I had to dance. Yes, that was it! I could dance on the street and gather money - enough for mother and I to purchase train tickets and something to eat. But, to dance, I needed to practice. And to practice correctly, I would need music, which I lacked. I also needed my shoes. I believe I displaced them somewhere. Were they still in Christine's dressing room, from last night? Pondering this, I decided to search for them there. It could not hurt to take just one look.

Not so gracefully, I rolled myself off the window-seat and proceeded to the door on the opposite end of the small room. It stood ajar, as mother had left it open, so I stepped through and glanced about the hallway.

Nothing.

Of course, what did I expect? I sighed, annoyed at myself, then turned to the right. My feet were cold, as I only had stockings on. I didn't want to wear my boots, and my ballet slippers were missing, so I chose not to wear anything. Another of my bad judgments. I kept my eyes on the path before me until I reached my destination and rested my palm on its door-handle. I realized that I was suddenly quite afraid of opening this door. Last night it had locked as soon as I'd shut it... would this happen again? I shuddered, and wished against it. I turned the knob and hesitantly stepped into the bright room. It was flooded with the pale light of the afternoon and caused me to squint as I entered.

I then remembered my purpose for being here - to collect my shoes, if they so happened to be in this room. I went about looking for them: I searched underneath the dresser, on the carpeted floors, everything. Yet it was seemingly missing. I groaned, agitated, then threw myself onto the vanity chair and peered into the mirror. "Meg," I scolded my reflection, "you should take better care of your ballet shoes!"

"I concur."

I heard a voice. Terrified of moving, I simply remained frigidly still and tried to discern a figure through the mirror's reflection. I did not speak, my mouth frozen shut.

"Marguerite should keep her shoes on her feet," the voice continued, icily.

"But I did," I piped up, surprised at my own pluck. "I cannot remember ever removing them."

Then it was silent. For a few moments, no words between the voice and I were exchanged. I did not even think to move, let alone breathe. I was horrified, because in the mirror, I'd caught sight of a movement. Just a slight one, but a movement nonetheless. And after the movement ceased, my ballet shoes sat upon the vanity as plain as day. But something was different about them: with golden thread, my name was engraved on the toes of each. It was all that I could do to stifle a gasp.

"It seems that you have found your shoes, Mademoiselle Giry." It now seemed as though the clouds were not the only ones mocking me.

"Why, yes!" I exclaimed. I giggled a little bit, for this all seemed too silly to me. Either that or the nervousness inside me spilled over in the most bizarre form.

"You laugh."

"Yes, I find it funny."

It was quiet again - but this time, only for a few seconds. For, after a slight pause, I heard it.

The voice had returned.

I whirled around to find the mirror hanging on the wall open, beckoning me to follow. I laced up my shoes as quickly as possible, my eyes never moving from the mirror; light seemed to emit from behind it, creating a very lovely image. As soon as I'd finished lacing my shoes, I stood from the vanity and walked, painfully slowly, to the mirror (or was it a door?). My bony fingers grasped it and pulled it back, the music guiding me. My ears and heart were filled with what I had longed for so long. As soon as my feet touched the hallway behind the mirror and my eyes fell upon the golden statuettes grasping fiery lanterns, I began to dance my way through. My eyes were closed, but somehow my toes knew where to take me. My pink tutu flounced behind me and my hair swished to and fro as I twirled and spun; my mind consumed by the delicious music. I began to sing along with it, but as soon as I did that, it stopped, and I stopped with it. I'd come to a set of spiral stairs winding down a few flights. I was slightly embarrassed, for I figured that it was my pitiful attempts at singing that stopped the music.

But as I began to step down the stairs, the enormity of the situation befell me. Here I was, completely alone, in this strange chamber, with no idea of where I might be and no idea of where I might be going. I began to cry a little as I followed the stairway. How silly I had been! I stopped, then glanced behind me to see if I could follow the path back to Christine's room (the thought of which filled me with concern for mother, as she would soon wonder where I was)... but the path was dark - it was as if I was leading a procession of light that only followed around me. I sighed, wiped my tears away, and then continued to move, my left hand grasped the thick railing. As I neared the bottom, I saw a horse tied to a wall and a little gondola adrift in a lake. A lake, underneath the opera house? This intrigued me, and I quickened my pace.

Suddenly, my feet grew slack and my entire world shifted. I tried to scream, but only a choked whimper managed to escape. I was standing on a trap door, masked as a stair that began to give way. I grasped the railing of the staircase, but could only hold on for a few seconds before falling to what I thought was my death. Then, finally, I screamed, because I let go. I screwed my eyes shut and braced myself. This is it, I kept thinking. I'm going to die!

One could imagine my surprise when my feet touched water and I slipped beneath murky waves. I fought my way to the top of this murky pool and gulped in as much air as I possibly could. I rubbed my eyes and glanced around, trying to stay afloat. I heard something rattle and looked above me. A gate was closing down on me! I screamed, completely unaware of what to do next. I began to panic; my breath became ragged and short as tears fell down my cheeks. Oh God, I was going to die. Again!

As the gate met my head, I took my last breath and grabbed onto it with my fingers. I slid underneath the water and tried with all my might to prevent it from lowering any further. I was at a loss as to how to stop it and began to panic even more. I needed to breathe. My chest tightened, my grip loosened, and I started to give in.


	3. Chapter 3

My eyes and ears clouded with dirty water and my mouth was filled with it. I could not spit it out, and I could not bear to think of swallowing it. All I wanted was to breathe. My eyelids pulled back and I took one last, very long, stare at the world I was leaving behind. I sank as the gate pushed me down; realizing the end was near. There was a flicker of light that I managed to see as I sank - a light that filled me with hope, but also caused me to see how entirely powerless I was in this situation. I wondered where the light could be coming from. A window, perhaps? Yet, I did not see one as I fell. Though, I hadn't caught a glimpse of much as I fell. So I stared at the light, transfixed, feeling my lungs start to collapse. But then, a miracle happened.

The gate was starting to lift! I was growing weaker with every passing minute, but regardlessly attempted to pull myself to the surface. I was unable to and resorted to clinging onto the grated platform instead. It lifted very slowly, agonizingly so, but I knew that I could not give into death yet. Now was not my time; now was my time to me saved! This thought filled me with new hope and I soon forgot all about breathing. I smiled, despite the pain wracking my lungs, and readied myself for the air.

My hands were first greeted with a cold, tingling sensation as they lifted from the watery chamber. Then, the top of my head, my eyes, my nose, and, finally, my mouth. I opened my eyes and spat out the water in my mouth. I took greedy mouthfuls of the sweet air, perhaps too much, and this caused me to feel rather faint. I was suspended in the air for a good number of minutes before I decided that I needed to put my feet on solid ground, then perhaps try to regain some strength before continuing down the path - or trying to escape to whence I came. I glanced around, trying to find somewhere to sit. I saw a small staircase winding its way up to a dimly lit hallway from the water below me and decided that was my best prospect. I let go of the bars and splashed into the water, this time voluntarily, and made my way over to the stairs very slowly. I realized how weak this near-death-experience had made me - it took much effort just to pull myself through water. But I kept moving; the thought of resting once I reached my destination fueled me.

I finally reached the stairs and gingerly dragged myself from the pool and onto the first step. I found myself unable to continue and leaned forward, resting my arms on the second and third steps. My head fell into place on top of my arms and within moments my world faded to black.

- - - -

I cannot quite say what happened next, as I do not know. What I do know is this: I am certainly not awakening to the sight of murky waters and the feeling of cold stone stairs beneath me. In fact, I wish I were, for where I am now is not very comfortable. Beneath me is a rough cotton blanket that is biting my skin. My tutu is still damp, which means I haven't been asleep long. I shivered; partly because of the unsettling silence and partly because I was so very cold. My eyes took in as much of the scenery that I could when I opened them. I appeared to be lying in a bed. My initial impulse was to check my wrists and ankles for bindings, thus I did and thankfully found none. Suddenly, I was very glad to have my tutu still on. Crimes of molestation were not completely unheard of today.

I rose to a sitting position on the bed and realized that underneath this rough cotton throw there was soft, silken, maroon comforter. I sighed; I must've been too inadequate to qualify, in my rescuer's eyes, to sleep on that. I thought it very rude and decided not to suffer on this peasant blanket any longer. My feet met with the floor and I stood from the bed, the headboard of which I found to be a dark metallic black with swan engravings. My eyes wandered beyond the room and to a lake. I'd been in this place before, about a month ago. I remember it now, but I hadn't been too far in. This was an amazing spectacle. Who would guess that there was an entire living compartment in the bowels of the opera house?

I began to walk to the right. The frigid air swirled around me and sent chills up my spine as I glanced about. I noticed there was a desk tucked away in a corner, so I approached it. Tacked up on the walls and scattered in a mess all over the floor and desktop were pictures, some distorted, of Christine. Most were of her singing or of her profile. While they showed some great artistic skill they were quite unnerving. The detail was sound; one would have to study another's face very carefully to sketch that well. I shuddered a little. Whoever owned this large cave had a very unhealthy obsession with my companion.

My heart began to thud against my chest. All of this was a little frightening. Yet I continued to move forward. The next thing I saw was a small version of the Opera Populaire's stage. There were little wax figurines on the stage set for Don Juan - they were in a smoldering heap. Most were burned and melting, among them, myself. My eyes widened as I realized that the only one not steaming was Christine.

By now, I could barely contain my trepidation. My hands were perspiring. Yet I continued forward. Next to the stage, there was a room masked by curtains. Even though I was terrified my curiosity still thrived and I longed to unveil the room. I lightly stepped toward it, raising my trembling palm to its red exterior. I pulled it back and was horrified beyond measure at what I saw. Behind this curtain was a naked mannequin whose face was eerily like Christine's. Save the rest of her beyond her chin, which was full of wires and cotton. I would have screamed but I'd lost all control of my vocal chords. She looked like a dismembered corpse! And for a moment I'd actually believed that she was Christine, murdered by her secret admirer. My mouth fell open and tears trickled down my face. I feared not only for my life, but Christine's as well. I heard a movement to the rear of me but I could not move. My eyes were frozen in place: I could not move them from the glass eyes of the replica of my darling friend.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, but dared not move. I knew that it was certainly not my mother, I knew her touch, and I knew that there was no one else in this chamber let alone in the opera house, which left only the ghost - Christine's presumed obsessor. I was paralyzed. If I turned around, I would have to look at him. And what if he was ugly? That would only make things worse. To be mentally ill was one thing, but to be repulsive as well? Alas, my curiosity betrayed me, and I whirled around to face him. My eyes were closed, however, as I feared his piercing glance. His hand still was hard on my shoulder; I could feel his breath mingling with mine that's how close we were. But his smelled of decay and rot and nearly caused me to gag. My nose crinkled up.

"Am I unworthy of your senses?" He questioned, letting his arm fall limp and thump against his thigh. His voice was hostile.

"No," I replied, gently, afraid to anger him. I opened my eyes, quickly.

What I saw reminded me of death. His eyes were cold and sliced into me. His teeth were in desperate need of straightening. His skin looked like it could have been parchment at one time and the black pants and dress coat he wore only intensified the deathly look he projected. But all that was nothing in comparison to what was on the right side of his face. Marring his cheek and eye were welts and burns that were slightly faded from what they probably were before. But regardless, still vivid and very ugly. He truly was a ghostly figure. With reasons unbeknownst to me, I screamed loudly and accidentally into his face. He pulled back, a look of pain on his face, and turned away from me.

"Woman!" He wailed, grabbing his ears.

I quieted myself, quickly crossed myself, then exclaimed, "Lord save me!" I dropped to my knees and prepared to ask forgiveness. "Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done---"

His glare made my prayer fall short. I rose to my feet, blinked my tears away, and inclined my head to him as if he were royalty. He walked away from me and sat at a very ornate organ dressed in gold and flanked with angelic statues. I timidly followed him and stood farther off, not wanting to intrude in his peace. He began to play a very melancholy tune the touched me all the way to my shoes. I closed my eyes and prepared to dance, feeling suddenly inclined to do so. I danced even better than I had in Christine's dressing room and through the hallways behind the mirror. Grace and passion guided my hands and torso; sensuality and joy guided my feet and legs. I danced for a very long time without stopping or feeling tired even once. My movements warmed me and helped to dry my tutu and my hair, which I had tied into a bun at the base of my neck before starting my dance.

Then, the music stopped abruptly, as did my dance. I opened my eyes and glanced around, wondering what had ended the melody. The phantom stood before me and touched his face, the scalded side, and then sighed in annoyance. "I have you to thank for this, Marguerite."

"Me?"

"Yes. Ever since that fateful day in this opera house, a certain item has been in your possession. Can you name it?"

The epiphany enlightened me. "A mask."

"Yes! One of fairly small size and that fits my disfigured face."

"That's the one," I agreed, smiling a little.

"I'd like it back." He stated it so emotionlessly that the smile faded from my face.

"Yes, sir." I replied, nodding to him. I suddenly felt as if I refused this, I would find myself in much trouble.

"Good. Bring it tomorrow. Au revoir." With that, he turned back to his organ and began to play.

I remembered that I did not know how to get back to Christine's dressing room and certainly did not want to stay here all night. The only safe thing to do was ask him, lest I wanted to wander around this underground labyrinth or become submerged in a pool again. So I approached him, silently, and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. He stopped immediately but did not turn to face me.

"What is it?"

"I do not know the way back, Monsieur. Could you tell me how to get back to Christine's dressing room?" He shuddered visibly as I said Christine's name. After he collected himself, he pointed to a mirror to the right of him. It was leaning against the wall of the cavernous area and draped on it was a red curtain.

"Go behind that mirror. It will lead you directly to Christine's room - the one she used to share with you and your mother.

I thanked him before he started to play his song again and followed his directions carefully. I reached the mirror, pulled it back, and stepped inside the dark chamber. At the end was a light. I recognized this to be a lantern held by none other than my mother. I, ashamed of all the worry I must have caused her, guiltily slid down the hallway one slow step at a time.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note •• Sooo, I've been gone for a while, eh? Well, I got inspired to write at least one more chapter of this little story, so here it is. I made references to occurances in the book as well, so don't be alarmed if you haven't heard of some of the things of which I speak. Thanks for reading!

- ~ -

Needless to say, I caused my mother irrevocable distress, and nothing I could do nor say would lighten her dark mood.

Since my return from the bowels of the opera house, she hardly ever spoke to me, such was her utter wrath toward my rather unscrupulous behavior. But I could not help it - curiosity really did get the better of me, and with it, an insurmountable driving force... I wanted to dance like I did that night always, and the only way, to my knowledge, that I can accomplish that, is through the Ghost's musings. This does not appeal to me, but if it is the only way, then I will appeal to it.

"Meg," came the cold, callous, lifeless voice of my mother, as she sat by the window in our joint dressing room, "we need to restore the opera house. Either that, or find a job elsewhere."

I inwardly groaned. This was the constant subject of my mother's thoughts, and she spoke nought else of "restoring the opera house" to me, when she expressed anything to me at all. I was glad to hear her voice, however strained and weak its tone, and therefore inclined my head toward her, feigning interest so as to keep her talking. "Yes, mother," I said, pasting a smile on my face (though it carried the semblance of a wince more than a smile).

"I will go to Messrs. Andre and Firmin upon the morrow, daughter, and you will remain here," she choked out the last part, her wan features twisting around the words. She hated to leave me here in solitude, for fear that I would visit the Ghost, and had clearly been struggling with this for quite a while. I could barely contain myself with glee. "If I find out that you went within twenty paces of Christine's room, I will have to bind you to your bed. Would you like that?"

"No," I admitted, genuinely intimidated by her harsh glare directed toward me.

"Good," my mother decided, leaning back onto the pane. She did not speak to me the rest of the day.

- ~ -

I slept fitfully all night long, twisting with nightmares of the Ghost and my mother, cohorts in fearing me, and woke with tears streaking my face almost every two hours. When I awoke, mother had already gone, for I'd slept in for a good portion of the day after my horrid dreamscape experience. I was glad that I was not forced to kiss her good-bye. I'd found it difficult to communicate physically with her since our emotional severance that fateful night I returned from my first meeting with the Ghost.

Feeling rather lethargic, and on account of the fact that I was alone, I let my long, golden tresses swing down to my hips unrestrained, and kept my white bloomers on, lilac corset above, as I could not sleep without it (it had become a level of comfort to me - a medium, if you will, which connected me to my once, nearly perfect, reality). I wore my ballet slippers and donned a white dressing gown, feeling, in a way, sprightly. I went to my vanity and seated myself, averting my eyes from my mirror. I was unable to look at myself after the dark rings sank in and my cheekbones protruded, my thin skin stretched tautly over them.

I sought, in the drawers, a ribbon to pull my hair from my face, and, instead, my fingers met with a cold, smoothe, wooden surface. My heart nearly skipped a beat, and my entire body went numb from the icy tendrils of fear lacing my muscles.

I'd forgotten to bring the Ghost his mask.

As if in a hurried trance, I scooped the white face from my drawers and bounded toward the door. Why hadn't he killed me, haunted me, punished me yet? Were the dreams his form of punishment? Could specters control dreams? I barred all thought of it and pushed ahead, my feet pounding rhythmically against the wooden floors. As I neared Christine's dressing room, I recollected the fact that when I first entered the berth, I had nearly died. How was I going to successfully reach the Ghost's - for lack of a better word - lair? And, once I did, would I exit alive? He told me nearly two weeks ago to bring his mask to him. And I had failed. And he kills people that fail to obey him.

Skidding to halt just before the door banged me in the face, the memory of my mother's threats surfaced in my mind. I knew my mother - she would not hesitate to bring her threats to fruition. If I were to go, I would never be able to leave my bed... but if I were to stay, then I run the risk of continued nightmares and possibly even death. Deciding upon the proper course of action, I cleared my throat, swallowed, and opened the door.

Spider-webs adorned the corners of the maroon walls, the lace hangings indistinguishable from the silvery strands. I gulped, for spiders always had a profoundly negative effect on my confidence, and quickly tip-toed over to the mirror, my eyes glued to the floor, lest a hairy being assault my feet or legs. Again, avoiding my reflection, I pulled the mirror back and entered the dank, filthy couloir, the hands of angels carrying lanterns on my left and right, though none of them lit my way.

Steeped in trepidation, I continued down the hallway until I met with the familiar winding stairwell, the likes of which had quite nearly ended my life with their wiles. Unfortunately, I could not remember exactly which step had caused my fall, but all the same, I was sure to step lightly on each one and hang onto the rail as if my life depended on it - which it quite nearly did. After several minutes of utter silence save my muted footfalls, I finally discovered the jinxed step, and narrowly avoided a reprisal of my almost-demise. Though I was unconvinced that there were no more trick steps, and hence decided to continue to make my way down the stairs in the same fashion as I had been hitherto.

Fortune held out for me, however, and it seemed as though no other steps were jinxed, for which I would be eternally grateful. Pushing my robe from my chest, as the air had taken on a rather uncomfortable heat at the foot of the stairs, I hesitantly peered about the room in which I found myself. There appeared to be nothing upon first glance, yet, as I stepped forward, lights temporarily blinded me and I fell back onto what felt like sand. Once I regained my vision, I sat up, with a girlish gasp, and widened my eyes at the sights surrounding me: it was if I'd landed in some paradise, with sand at my feet, an oasis of water nearby, and myriad trees just out of reach under which I might shade myself. I suddenly became aware of the gnawing hunger and thirst in both my stomach and throat, and gazed longingly at the huge, ripe fruits dripping from the trees which hung like a weeping willow over the oasis.

Muttering to myself in utter shock, I stood from the sand, not event taking time to dust myself or to retrieve the mask that lay beside me, and broke into a run toward the oasis. I ran, gasping with anticipation, and met with an invisible surface which branded me with burn marks on my forehead and arms. Screaming in agony as I felt my skin melt, I threw myself onto the ground and rolled around pathetically, covering myself with sand in desperate attempts to relieve the scorching pain. What on earth was that confounded barrier?!

"You've discovered my Hall of Mirrors, I see," an all-too familiar voice intoned behind me. It sounded as if its owner were smiling. "Dear Marguerite, let me see your burns," it cooed, its cold, bony fingers encircling my emaciated arm. I shuddered at the chill, but it felt wonderful against my flaming skin, and I leaned in to his touch. "You took long enough in returning my mask." The grip tightened until I cried out, suddenly weeping both from fear and pain. "But I shall be lenient with you, since you brought it back after all."

"My apologies, Ghost," I choked between spasms of heat from the burns and chill from his hands - a chill comparable to that of death's. "What must I do to make amends?"

He seemed to be taking in my inquiry, for he did not respond for quite some time. But, when he finally did speak, with that voice that had a sort of elegiac quality, he said, "You shall help me compose the accompanying dance to my newest project, Marguerite."

I swallowed, heart fluttering from nervousness. "Wouldn't you rather employ my mother to such a task?" I queried, horrified at the prospect of regular visits to the underground lair under the watchful eye of my mother. "She is more qualified than I, and -"

"You asked me what _you_ could do to make amends for your tardiness, Marguerite, not what your mother could do in your stead," the Ghost replied, a hint of admonishment in his heady tone. I felt my face heat with this statement, embarrassed by my folly.

"When would you like me to assist?" Through gritted teeth, I posed the question.

"I believe once a week would suffice," came his collected reply as he hoisted me, with a sort of inhuman strength, off the ground and to my feet. "And, next time," he began, "please wear something a little more... decent," he said the last part quietly, and by the time he'd finished, my face must have been as red as an apple.

"Yes, Sir," came my awkward reply, after being set on my feet. I hazarded not a glance at his marred visage, yet, instead, focused my attention on the scenery surrounding us. I then realized why he'd referred to it as the Hall of Mirrors - the walls and ceiling were covered with large, pristinely kept mirror, reflecting the inside of the room in which we stood, sand at our feet.

So, it was an illusion. I rubbed my sore burn-marks a little sourly. Figures.

Despite the heat, I wrapped my near-sheer dressing gown around my neck so as to cover what little I'd already invited the Ghost's eyes into and turned to leave, when he grabbed my shoulder and whispered, "Don't breathe a word about this to Antoinette." He referred to my mother, and I could understand why he didn't want to tell her. It was one thing we agreed on at least. I shivered at the notion of her discovering what I'd been up to this morning.

"I do not plan on it, Sir," I assured him, and then he pushed one of the mirrors back, and the eerie stairwell was made visible to me once more. It was so dark, and so frightening, and there were numerous hideous things lurking in the shadows - the likes of which I daren't consider on my path. If only I had a light!

"Sir Phantom," I said, suddenly emboldened, "would you mind lighting my way? It is awfully dark up there..." I trailed off, unable to repress a demeaning shudder.

There came no response.

"Sir Phantom?" I said again, being seized by an onslaught of trepidation. Numbly, I turned around, fearing of meeting my eyes to his, and, instead, met with nothing but blackness.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Thanks for the many wonderful comments! I really appreciate them. Hopefully this chapter will satisfy! :3

- ~ -

"Where did you get those burns, daughter?"

"The iron, _maman_."

She didn't believe me, I knew it, but, as of yet, she had no proof to suggest otherwise. For a week, she had asked me the same question every morning, and every morning, I gave her the same answer.

I watched as she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the rocking chair in which she was sitting. She exhaled a little noisily and did not speak to me for the remainder of the time I spent in our room. For a while, I didn't mind the silence, but soon I longed for a conversation, and the only alternative to mother was... no! I must not think such thoughts! By no means should I look forward to a conversation with a feral spirit - no, I must bar myself from such notions by repairing my relationship with my mother. But how? Frustrated, I deduced that some fresh air would be a welcome relief from the stagnant air of the opera house.

"I'm going to go for a stroll," I announced. She did not respond. Asleep. I regarded her snoozing form, and a smile wove its way onto my features. It was a rather devious smile.

My blonde hair knocking against my hips in a familiar caress, I strode over to the wooden door to our joint room, tugged on the cold, brass handle, and entered the room as silently as I could manage. I didn't want to wake maman, for if I did, hell would certainly ensue. Ever wary of my mysterious burns, she hadn't let me leave the room except under her supervision. As it was, I was already in serious trouble, for when she woke up she would certainly hunt me down and whip me with her tongue.

I deftly shut the door behind me and slipped into the darkness of the hall, feeling very wrong about the latter, seeing as it was a time that made me most vulnerable to the Ghost, yet banished my thoughts of fear and headed straight for the costume room. I needed new clothing, for mine was much too big now, and the only place where I might attain this is the deserted chamber where the garb of the ingenues lay.

Most prima donna roles included several dancing numbers as well, so their costumes were often flowing and allowed for some minute movement. Christine had worn many of these gowns during her short reign as prima donna of the Paris Opera House, and, the fact that she, being of such a small size, was able to fit in a few, boded well for me. I was probably her size now. Stifling a laugh, I fought back a distant memory of myself mocking Christine for her small, girlish frame... it was all in good sport, then, and Christine had taken no offense. But now, all I could think of is how I, too, was now small and girlishly thin as well.

Much to my dismay, my chest had decreased in size quite noticeably, and my waist was now so thin that I could nearly touch my fingers when I wrapped may palms around myself. My cheeks were now sallow, and my cheekbones protruded garishly. My legs muscles, once thick and sturdy, now were stripped of half that strength, and I could scarcely dance for an hour before being unable to stand from fatigue.

I don't like to think about the slow recession of my health very often, so, battling thoughts of resentment and severe nostalgia, I reached my destination and quietly pulled back the handle.

Dust motes swirled around my pale face, and, striving to evade their persistent attacks, I scooted away from them, pursing my lips and expelling weak gusts of air in order to blow them away. It proved to be an easy task, and, once finished with it, I proceeded to open the window on the other side of the room, allowing mid-afternoon sunlight to stream through and dimly light the room.

It was just as I'd remembered it, with the velvet plush carpet and light pink walls. There were mirrors and sewing needles and cushions everywhere, all standing still, frozen in time, having been untouched for nearly three months. I shuddered, memories flooding my mind, and suddenly longed for company. I felt strangely compromised in this familiar environment, all alone with my mind, with God knows what lurking in the dark corners.

Shivering, I turned to face the rows upon rows of fabric, most of it reeking with the smell of moths, and began a slow, careful procession down the middle of the rows--there were passageways between each row--and thumbed through the various gowns, trying to find one both my size and appropriate for dancing. I sifted through myriad beautiful gowns, though they were all too big. I'd found a gorgeous Lucia di Lammermoor gown, bloodstained for her mad scene, which I fell in love with, _Lucia di Lammermoor_ being my favorite opera, yet it was ill suited for dancing, and therefore I had to take my leave of it.

There was another that I liked, a Juliette gown from _Romeo et Juliette_, the French opera, yet it was a tad too large around the chest.

Determinedly, I continued to peruse the contents of the room, until I had worn out every single row--of the five--saving the last. I was hoping I would be able to find at least something in my final, pitiful attempt.

My fingers, raw with handling so many different fabrics, suddenly collided with a wonderfully soft, yellow material that instantly soothed them. Hoping this was the one, I pulled it out, and immediately recognized it as Olympia's costume from _The Tales of Hoffmann_, a rather bizarre, but nonetheless good, opera which I had been in more than once. I'd always wanted to play Olympia, even more than I'd wanted to play Lucia, because of the lengthy dance solo she has, but I am no singer, and would never be able to reach the high notes she reaches while dancing.

The dress, of course, was perfectly suited for dancing, with its knee-length tutu and pastel yellow top made of the softest material I'd ever felt. It had silver sequins lining the square collar, sleeves, and making jagged patterns of running along the sides of the tutu. Matching ballet shoes were attached, as well as several accessories. I could do without those, but the ballet shoes I could certainly use.

I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of an Olympia costume before--Christine and I loved the opera from whence she came when we were little, and she would sing Olympia's aria while I would dance to it. However, we were very young then, and with age came new favorites, and _The Tales of Hoffmann_ and Olympia soon faded into the fringes of my memory. I suppose that's why it slipped my mind when I sought a suitable costume.

Hopefully this would fit.

Hesitantly removing my loose clothing, for I could feel the Ghost's eyes everywhere in the dark, I shoved it in a corner and slid on the Olympia costume, immediately feeling relieved that it did, indeed fit. It was so soft against my skin, and fit snugly around my breasts, accentuating their new size. I headed to one of the many mirrors after lacing my ballet slippers and chose to seat myself on a cushion positioned in front of one.

It was a perfect fit now that I could see it in its entirety and not just feel it against my skin.

I smiled faintly, my muscles straining from the rare position, and touched my golden hair. It had grown so long now that I could scarcely dance with it down, and tonight would be no exception. Thus, recalling the lovely way that Olympia wore her hair, I made to mimic it. I divided it on either side of my head, resting half on each shoulder, and quickly plaited both halves. I took the ends, pulled both the entire braided strands up, and coiled them into a bun at the nape of my neck, using the shimmering silver ribbon that came with the gown to keep it in place, with the assistance of several pins.

Now finished, I stood to regard myself further.

I was a spitting image of Olympia, excepting the make-up, of course. In order to give myself the appearance of wearing rouge, at least, I pinched what was left of my cheeks and an attractive pink flushed them.

I was finally feeling ready to meet with the Ghost once more, though my heart was steadily pounding into my chest at the thought of it.

When I had finished regarding myself in the mirror, I shut the window and exited the room, leaving my old ballet gown crumpled in the corner next to the fifth row of costumes. I had no need of it now that I had Olympia's gown. A genuine smile flitting across my face, I thought to myself, I never thought I'd be wearing this gown in a million years. And now I was! Yet this was not the time for excitement, so I fought it back, and stumbled into Christine's dressing room moments later.

"So, you came," came the icy voice of the Opera Ghost.

Squaring my shoulders, I answered, as suavely as I could manage, "Isn't that what you wanted?"

He seemed to be reflecting on something, for he didn't respond as aptly as I'd anticipated. "Come through the mirror. I shall show you the proper way to arrive unscathed at the underwater lake." Though this was a bit of a peace offering, his voice was still frightened me.

"A-All right," I replied, cursing my feeble stammer.

I pulled back the mirror, and there he was, standing with his back to me, his cloak drawn high over his head and brushing the cold ground. The candles were all lit, to my pleasure, and I shut the mirror behind me.

"I will only show you once," he grunted, lurching into a brisk walk.

"I'm glad you lighted the way... it was beginning to worry me that I would have to come here in complete darkness all the time. It would be nice for you to light the way every time I come. You know, I risked a lot to come here. Mother wanted to tie me to my bed," I gushed, unaware of what urge to do so seized me.

"I never asked you to speak," came his sharp voice, curtly ending the one-sided conversation.

Gulping feverishly, I nodded, and picked up my pace to match his, though I was unable to walk in equal stride. I kept my head up and was sure to note all my surroundings, carefully documenting each step of the way in my head so that my trips in the future--I shuddered at the notion--would not be as hazardous. This documentation was a difficult task, however, for the path was fraught with winding roads and confusing hallways, all lacking distinguishable landmarks.

Yet, within roughly fifteen minutes, we made it to a large body of water at the foot of a winding staircase, and I had just about finished memorizing the way to its murky waters. There was an elegant gondola tied crudely to a handle on the stone wall near it, and mists seemed to spontaneously arise. My palms began to sweat, as they do when I get exceedingly nervous, and I followed after the dark figure before me as he swept into the gondola, not pausing to help me in like a gentlemen.

But he was a ghost. What did I expect, a chivalric hero?

Shelving my thoughts on the subject, I sat opposite him and fiddled nervously with my frilly skirts. He began to quickly steer us through the lake, not sparing a glance behind us, the only source of light being the lantern swinging haphazardly from the end of the boat. I didn't like this, not one bit. But what choice had I? After all, he had a point. I had been extremely tardy in delivering his mask, and I needed to make amends. Yet, I couldn't help feeling there was another reason he asked me down to his sub-terrain hovel.

"Touch nothing," the Ghost snapped as he lodged the gondola between two jagged rocks, temporarily anchoring it.

I acquiesced, hoisting myself roughly onto the jagged shore, nearly splitting open my knee in so doing (I was getting rather frustrated with his persistent ignorance of my womanish failings) and took my position near his grand organ. "What shall I do?" I queried, shivering a little in the chill of the lake.

He seated himself at the organ, ignoring me, and opened a rather hefty tome filled with the scrawling of notes in what appeared to be a very violent fashion. The title of the opera was _Le Sang de l'Ange_. The blood of the angel. It wasn't the first time I'd heard mention of an such an angel. However, before I had a chance to digest it, he began to play what I immediately recognized as the overture, and I fell into a hypnosis of dance.

The song was my lover, and I embraced him with open arms, swaying with him in the dim candlelight. I closed my eyes, enraptured, and felt his cool touch on my hot face. My arms outstretched, I skittered through various positions, feeling as if my feet were on fire. My hips swayed seamlessly to the music, and I felt as though I'd known the song my entire life. The melody encompassed me, caressing my ears and forcing tears down my cheeks. My fingers splayed searchingly, trying to discern if I was in reality or dreamscape, for the man in my arms and my ears and running through my head seemed so real to be but a mere byproduct of hypnosis.

Crying out in the ecstasy of my dance, I spun on my heels, then my toes, until the breeze I created soothed my wet cheeks, and gathered me in its playful arms, making me feel as light as a feather. In my mind, I was floating on a cloud, the song-man in my arms, running his fingers through my hair, damp with sweat, and softly kissing my neck.

I flung myself into the movements wildly, passionately, with little or no humility.

Yet, before I knew it, it was over, and then I lay, chest heaving, and drenched in sweat, on the ground. The Ghost leaned over me with a smirk on his face.

"You needn't have composed any dance for the overture, ballet rat," he chuckled pretentiously while my face took on a heat that had nothing to do with my over-exertion.

Then why did you play it? I wanted to say, but I held my tongue. He knew how his music affected me. It had nothing to do with my wanting to dance or not. I just simply danced when he played and couldn't help it much.

"It wouldn't hurt to have a small dance solo during the overture, however. Therefore you must record step-by-step each move you made so that you can aptly rehearse it when lacking my presence," he said, thrusting me a parchment and quill.

I grimaced, took the offering, and set to work. I remembered each step vividly, having it ingrained in my memory whilst I performed it, and finished the steps with ease.

"What is _Le Sang de l'Ange_ about, Sir Ghost?" I asked, timidly, thinking knowing its premise would help me choreograph it slightly better.

His face grew hard and distant, the side without the mask frowning slightly, the muscles in the jaw tightly wound. "A young woman betrays her patron spirit for a pitiful excuse for a man. The angel tries to get revenge, yet fails because of his love for her. He instead seeks to die at her hand, and does at the end."

"Oh," I mumbled, quietly. "Like Christine..."

I thought I'd said it in my mind, but I was mistaken.

Within seconds, my head collided with the rocky wall, sending piercing pains through my skull, and his fingers were fiercely encircling my tiny neck. His face was ashen pale, and his eye twitched nervously. I could tell I'd said the wrong thing.

"Never - say - that - name - in - my - presence!" he breathed stertorously into my ear, the veins lacing his forehead protruding profoundly as he spoke so. "Do - you - understand - me - bitch?"

I whimpered, feeling my lymph nodes going numb, and managed a painful nod. Promptly after this, he dropped me, and as I crumpled onto the floor, sobbing miserably into my palms, he said, lifelessly, "Leave me."

However, he seemed to take his own advice before I could, and turned into the shadows, leaving me here alone. I moaned quietly, nursing my bruised neck, and allowed my body to be wracked by sobs of fear for a few minutes before picking myself up and heading for the route upstairs.


End file.
